


Won't Catch Me Crying

by Amonae



Series: Holiday Gifts 2016 [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9512861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amonae/pseuds/Amonae
Summary: Captain America is gone and the whole world mourns his loss, but Tony Stark finds himself coping with a bottle and an ancient Nokia.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laire (laireshi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/gifts).



> For [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi)~ Post-CW, hopefully not too melodramatic for a gift fic! Thank you for all of your help and support. <3 
> 
> If you’ve forgotten, your prompt was “tears.”
> 
> Thank you to [dapperanachronism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperanachronism), [massivespacewren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/massivespacewren), and [robin_tcj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_tcj) for your eyes on this one!

In all the months Tony had kept the little flip phone tucked away at the back of a workshop drawer—out of sight, out of mind and all that—it never rang once.

And now it never would.

He’d seen the news reports, seen memorial pieces from every damn station on “America’s Greatest Hero,” extolling the virtues of a man they’d condemned only the week before. Every one of them made Tony’s stomach recoil with anger and a flurry of emotions he preferred not to examine too closely. 

Grasping the edge of the drawer, Tony yanked it open, the force rattling the contents within and sending a bottle of scotch rolling to the forefront. He’d forgotten that was in there. His fingers twitched instinctively on the lip of the drawer. It’d been months since he touched the stuff, but the memory felt as fresh as yesterday, and right now he’d really like to numb everything else out, at least for a few hours. 

With a heaving sigh, he wrapped his fist around the neck of the bottle and freed it from the drawer. From there, it was all muscle memory. Tip back the bottle, drink, lower, repeat. Easy.

\------

He was holding the little flip phone, the plastic hard and unforgiving in the tight grip of his fist. His vision was blurry, no doubt from the liquor, as his fingers shuddered and shook through the motions of dialing a number he’d had memorized for ages but never used. It rang and rang and rang before going to voicemail, and Tony had to make a decision. He’d steeled himself for the familiar sound of Steve’s voice, not for this, this automated recording that lacked any semblance of personalization. Before he could convince himself to hang up, that this was a waste of time, there was the sharp beep that indicated the recording had started.

“Steve,” Tony whispered, flinching at how his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m not sorry. That’s not… it’s not why I’m calling. I’m not calling to clear my conscience or some such shit, we both know you’d call me on it in a second. I just…” He paused, long enough to feel the shudder of his nerves work its way into his voice. “I _miss_ you.”

Tony folded in on himself, perched precariously on the swivel stool, pressing his face as close to his knees as he could without toppling over. “I m-miss you…” he whispered, hearing the catch in his words, feeling the hot dampness of his own tears trickling onto his denim-covered knees. “Steve, I…” 

The obnoxious beep was back, followed by a plethora of message options, which Tony vehemently ignored, throwing the phone to the floor with an anguished scream. “FUCK YOU. Fuck you, Steve! Leaving me here with… with all **this** …” He scraped his hands through his hair, pulling hard enough to get some sense back, to realize what he’d done.

He’d destroyed the last link he had to Steve, to what Steve was, to what they had meant to each other. “Fuck,” Tony whispered, crumpling off the stool and to the floor, feeling the hard shock of the concrete through his knees to the arch of his spine as he sifted through the pieces of cracked plastic. Sure, he wasn’t exactly sober, but Tony was a fucking genius, he could put a goddamned flip phone back together no matter his state. Plus, this model was ancient enough that it would take an entire building collapsing on the damn thing before calling it quits. 

The screen lit up, just like he thought it would, showing no new messages and no missed calls, just a cheerful reading of the time. 

Tony resisted the urge to throw it again. Wouldn’t do him any good now.

He lifted his arm, fumbling around on the desktop until he found the bottle of scotch. He drank while he watched the minutes roll over, slumping back against the workbench when sitting up became too much. He’d nearly fallen asleep when he heard it, a soft chime, followed by the trill of a pre-programmed melody. The phone had fallen from his loose fist to the floor a while ago.

That’s where it lay, buzzing heartily against the concrete, call display showing an unknown number. 

Tony felt his breath catch in his throat.

He picked up the phone.


End file.
